Shut Your Mouth
by IceShadow
Summary: Crawford has a late night visitor. PWP


"You shut your mouth, How can you say, I go about things the wrong way? I am human and I need to be loved, Just like everybody else does." ---The Smiths, How soon is Now?  
  
******  
  
His head jerked up, blinking away the fog of sleep as he sat bolt upright a disturbing vision yanking him back to the world of the waking. His eyes slowly began to focus, still bleary without his glasses. A yellow, catlike eye stared back at him, perched on the foot of the bed. Farfarello slunk forward, his body moving in liquid motion, the muscles slicking over bone, the moonlight that seeped into the window glinted off the blade of a large black handled, kitchen knife.  
  
Brad immediately turned to grab his gun off the bedside table but Farfarello was in his lap and shoving the sharp edge of the blade against his throat before he had a chance to reach the Magnum. The Irishman straddled his hips, that amber eye studying him as if he were a rare bug under glass.  
  
"Shhhhh," the madman pressed a scarred finger to his lips, the knife digging deeper into Brad's skin, pressing against his trachea. A thin line of blood welled around the silver glint of the knife; Farfarello homed in on it, purring in the back of his throat.  
  
The American sat still, already knowing what was going to happen and not being able to do a damn thing about it. There were two outcomes, do what Farf wants or end up a bloody pile of unrecognizable gore on the sheets.  
  
The Irishman shifted, pushing Brad down on his back, the knife guiding the American back down to the pristine white pillowcase. The blood slid down the side of his neck, tracing along the jugular vein and staining the white cloth. Farfarello followed the trail of the blood and smiled darkly as the virgin white of the pillowcase was stained with the red fluid, seeping down and veining out along the intricate fibers in the cloth.  
  
A steak knife was produced from the waistband of his gray sweatpants, he slid it up along Brad's t-shirt clad chest, tracing along the sternum and then stopping at the collar of the navy blue piece of apparel. He kept the first knife, a heavy chef's knife from the kitchen butcher block, pressed just below the Adams apple pressing up against the lump and making it almost impossible to swallow. The second hooked underneath the cloth and ripped down, cutting the shirt in two. The Irishman pushed the two sides apart with the tip of the knife, baring the American's chest.  
  
"Tell me," Farfarello rasped, turning the steak knife over to the blunt side and flicking it over one of his nipples. Brad shuddered, trying to swallow over the press of steel against his throat.  
  
"Tell you what?" Brad choked out he could feel the cut of the blade as he spoke. The blood trickled down along the skin of his neck, pooling darker on the pillowcase.  
  
The pupil in the Irishman's eye slipped down to a pinpoint and he growled, "You know what I want to hear. You tell me. Now."  
  
"I don't know what."  
  
The blade pressed down cutting further into his throat, "Shut your mouth!! I only want to hear what I want to hear.You. Tell. Me. NOW!" The last word was practically a shriek, the Irishman's odd rasped, tenor grinding out of his clenched teeth, anger seething in that amber eye.  
  
Brad tried to press back into the pillow, trying to escape the unforgiving blade. Farfarello just pressed harder, his eye burning yellow in the darkness of the room. He knew what the madman wanted to hear, he swallowed, his skin breaking further due to the action, "I want you."  
  
Farfarello purred, the knife moving away from the American's throat, he nodded in approval grinding his hips down against Crawford's. "I know you do."  
  
Brad grit his teeth in annoyance, lying still beneath the Irishman. Farfarello leaned down and nuzzled Crawford's neck, nipping along the collarbone. The American shivered beneath the white haired madman, risking movement and running his hands along Farf's thighs.  
  
"Get on your back," Brad whispered, shifting under Farfarello slightly, their hips rubbing together erotically. The madman slid off of him to lie down on his back, discarding the knife to the floor. It landed with a heavy thump, forgotten on the thick blue carpeting.  
  
Brad sat up, wiping blood off his neck absently and looked down at the lounging Irishman. According to the digital clock on his dresser it was 3 in the morning, Farfarello was dressed in a gray tank top and a loose pair of flannel pajama bottoms, his hard-on very noticeable beneath the thin cloth. Brad leaned down, lips hovering a breath above the smaller man's. Farfarello closed the gap, claiming the American's lips in a searing kiss, forcing Crawford's mouth open with his tongue.  
  
Their bodies twined together, touching in all the right places. Brad slid his hand over to the nightstand and picked up his gun, pressing it to Farfarello's temple. The Irishman only moaned in approval pressing his head against the barrel and forcing his hips against the taller man's.  
  
Brad's lips curled into a smile, his brown eyes darkening. He sat back pulling off the Irishman's pants and discarding them to the floor. "Now you tell me."  
  
Farfarello rubbed his head against the barrel, his breath hitching slightly. "Fuck me."  
  
"More convincing," he ran the cool steel along Farfarello's cheekbone, brushing it over his slightly parted lips.  
  
"I want you, fuck me," the madman kissed the barrel, his full lips pressing tight to the cold, black metal.  
  
Crawford smiled, tugging his boxers off and throwing them on the floor. The Irishman spread his legs and opened his mouth, running his tongue over the barrel of the gun. Brad shivered at the sight and slid the gun into the smaller man's mouth and clicked back the safety. Farfarello moaned around the barrel, his hand running down his stomach to stroke himself, sucking on the gun his eye closed tight.  
  
The black haired American pushed the Irishman's legs further apart and lifted his knees to his shoulders, bending him at a painful angle. Farfarello didn't protest, only kept up the steady stroking, his mouth moving on the gun barrel. Crawford didn't bother with preparation; he shoved himself in to the hilt, leaning over to support himself on his free arm.  
  
His finger shivered on the trigger, just one little squeeze and Farfarello's brains would be blown all over the bed sheets. The God hating Irishman didn't seem to care just continued lavishing the gun with erotic attention, pushing back against Brad's hips in desperation. Crawford slung the madman's legs over his shoulders and began a brutal rhythm, all his frustration being taken out on the smaller man beneath him.  
  
Farfarello moaned around the black steel of the gun, groaning and thrusting his hips to meet Brad's harsh movements. They moved more frantically against each other, both working towards their pinnacle. Brad felt the Irishman shudder violently underneath him, coming with a harsh gasp, muffled by the gun barrel, his insides tightening almost painfully around Crawford's erection.  
  
With a jerk Brad pulled the gun back and it fired as he came, the smell of burnt cloth and gun powder drifted towards him as he spilt inside of the younger man beneath him. He panted erratically and finally opened his eyes to stare down at Farfarello. The Irishman was staring up at him, amber eye widened slightly from the loud noise, the bullet hole a mere inch from his temple, burned into the pillow and through the bed.  
  
"Next time you might not be so lucky, Farfarello," Brad whispered, brushing the heated gun barrel against the Irishman's pale cheek, watching it redden slightly.  
  
"I look forward to it," Farfarello purred, a slow sadistic smile curling onto his full lips.  
  
Brad just echoed the smile, sliding out and off of his smaller lover, throwing the gun to the floor haphazardly. He lay down after removing the battered pillow from the bed and slipped back into sleep, Farfarello sprawled and sated beside him. 


End file.
